


Puer

by Gbroolo



Series: et universi tacuit [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-11 14:40:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5630068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gbroolo/pseuds/Gbroolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unconventional twist on the usual heroic tale of Harry Potter, whereas he decided to succumb not to the maroon and gold of Gryffindor, but instead, the silvery hues of Slytherin. People aren't who they seem, alas; one too many catalyst resulting in the mess Severus Snape had gotten himself into; who does Dumbledore think he is, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Puer

**Author's Note:**

> Ahah this is my first time posting my writing online... I hope you all enjoy it, I suppose I'll only update if there's a demand for it- if not, then I'm telling a story to a wall, and my crippling self esteem doesn't need that.

'Sticks and stones may break my bones  
But words will always scar me.'

Innocence was a virtue. That’s what they told him, anyways. Also a virtue, according to them, was the understanding of the utmost and significance of silence; he confined to such with little complaint, however much their belittling attitudes remained. 

A rat trapped in a cage was he, both literally and illegitimately. Residing in the dank, presumably lethal conditions of the cranny beneath the stairs, he’d seen hardly anything of a mundane world of childhood; unaccustomed to affection and attention. Rats, though, were a commonplace entity where he resided; whereas the everyday person would have a heart attack at the sight of one, he merely thought of them as neighbors.

Harry Potter was not a normal boy.

Not because of anything he’d done to himself- powers above his own manipulated his life into the hellhole he found himself within. He’d managed to piece as much together by overheard snippets of conversation as to realise he was abnormal- with what atypical trait he knew not. They spoke of him only as “the boy”, as if his very name was voodoo- poison on their tongues.

He still maintained, however, that he was not disappointed with this, that he was instead relieved that he wasn’t swaddled like a child, as his cousin was. He had not the gushing terms of endearment, or the comforting kisses, or any semblance of emotion shown to him; instead, he was blatantly ignored. He still maintained he liked it that way. He’d be lying of course, but a filter, as he was also told, is a virtue as well.

He knew not the time, as the view from the coffin-like room was only of the adjacent wall, a miniature portrait of a vase of poppies among the white, blandish expanse his only source of solace within the recluse of himself. All was quiet, and from that he surmised it was of early morning, pale light trickling its way into the hallway beyond his locked door. He’d not felt the warmth kissed touch of sunlight against his pale skin for many days, locked away in his hideaway in punishment from merely an unfortunate turn of events.

It’d not been filled with spite or purposeful when he’d done it- quite the contrary, in actuality. A surprisingly pleasant day at the zoo had turned dastardly when he’d displayed what he now presumed was that much hated atypical trait that forced him into the small, dank, cabinet beneath the stairs. It’d been nothing short of a fiasco following that point. 

His green eyes sparkled with hardly a malevolent intent as he watched the docile creature swell impassively under his analyzing stare; constricting upon itself- hence its name, boa constrictor. It spoke with innocence as he did with it, idle conversation of their unknown origins bringing about nosy onlookers; more specifically, his cousin, Dudley. He lacked such virtuous trait of inhabiting a filter, and displayed such absence heartily- which is when it all went to hell, as most do.

This went to say he was not to experience a day like that for a long, long while. 

His last human interaction was of his uncle nearly killing him from asphyxiation; shoved not-at-all-pleasantly against rough plaster as his rancid, hot breath fanned across his flushed cheeks; shouting expletives into deaf ears, choking a blocked throat. He’d gotten the gist of the one way argument even though he’d hardly listened to the blunt of it- something about ‘no meals for a week’ and ‘you’d be damned to try another stunt like you did, boy’.

He still maintained stubbornly he didn’t care, though. 

A muffled sound of movement from above constricted his windpipe- he realised, with fear. His body practically ached from the nearly eleven years of pure abuse from his extended family; he wanted not to feel another second of it. He’d rather die. His spindly fingers knotted into the frayed sheets below him as he waited on bated breath; for what, he knew not. Heavy footfalls on carpet alerted him that they were of his uncle; parading- leaden with sleep- downstairs. They paused above him, and Harry waited.

“Oi, boy, get the mail.” Was all he spoke, voice gravelly with slumber. Harry waited until his shuffled footfalls passed beyond his room and into the adjacent; the kitchen. Unbolting his door, deaf to the sharp shriek of metal against itself- sign that the hinges were to be oiled again, soon. His legs were wobbly from their lack of use; being cramped up in the small space for three days wasn’t giving him the pinnacle of health. 

The post lay docile on the welcome mat, thick with newspapers full of uninteresting headlines and bills. Harry sorted idly through the stack, careful not to waste time grazing his fingers across sharp edges of envelopes and such, eyes glazing across numerous letters mailed to his uncle and aunt.

'Vernon, Vernon, Petunia, Vernon, Harry, Vernon, P--'

His dull inner monologue died away as if smothered, a name- his name- gaining his attention. Sleep deprived eyes scanned the letter, written in a script of elegance, a sort of carefree one, at that. Written in emerald ink, it sparkled slightly, as if still freshly written;

'Mr. H Potter  
The Cupboard under the Stairs  
4 Privet Drive  
Little Whinging  
Surrey'

This had to be a joke. No one would ever- in their right mind, contact the nut case of a boy like him. He turned the yellowing parchment of the envelope, searching for a sign- something, anything. His gaze caught the plum-coloured waxen seal; elaborately decorated, four animal-looking creatures surrounding a uppercase H, proper and orotund. Turning the letter over in his hands once more; his hands gave a little quiver of anticipation as a slightly overgrown nail slipped against the parchment; digging slightly into the paper- tearing slightly.

“Hurry up, boy-!” The toneless quality of his voice- which could only be brought about by the morning- greeted him once more, startling him back into reality. All at once, the dream was over, in a cascade of actuality. His hands shook now with a honed sense of fear- gathering the mail into his arms, Harry paused to toss his letter into the darkened shade of his inhabitance before shuffling into the kitchen. The look he received was dark, not because of him, per-say, but more of the time of day in which he greeted him. 

Harry made no eye contact as he dropped the stack of letters into his uncle’s lap, wanting nothing more but to escape back to his room to discover the contents of his mail. His fingers gave an impeccable twitch of impatience as he waited to be instructed; casting a furtive glance towards the door beyond.

“Turn the kettle on.” He finally spoke after a long bout of silence, not looking up from the letter he’d first unfolded. Hardly speaking a word, he moved across the kitchen noiselessly, placing the small, red kettle on the eye of the stove; twiddling with the dial for a moment before stepping away with some sense of completion of the task at hand. Vernon spared him a glance, expression impassive as he waved his hand, defensively. 

“Don’t just stand around, boy-!” Harry took this as an invitation to depart from the room as fast as possible, skirting into his room and closing the door as quietly as he possibly could. His hands found the letter even before his eyes had adjusted to the darkness; tearing it open almost hungrily, Harry pulled it from it’s confines, brushing dark bangs from his face impatiently. 

The paper enclosed was just as thick as the parchment encasing it, folded neatly into a perfect rectangle; once unfolded, into three different sections. Harry smoothed out the letter and began to read.

'HOGWARTS SCHOOL  
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,  
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all the necessary books and equipment. Term begins September the First. We await your owl no more than one day following its delivery.  
Yours Sincerely,  
Minerva McGonagall  
Deputy Headmistress'

He stopped, eyes trained at the end of the letter as thoughts poured ceaselessly into his pounding brain. His gaze caught the phrase ‘no more than one day’; and his stomach gave a funny little lurch. He was still entirely nonplussed on what was going on, a sense that this was all some sort of elaborate prank at his expense creeping up on him. Nothing in reality seemed to be meshing together correctly- wizards and witches? This had to be a twisted sort of joke. 

Tossing the letter aside, as the parchment was not the only contents within the envelope; he nearly slit his finger upon the next bunch of papers- a list of supplies, he found, as he read. He lay those beside the greeting, not bothering to read into much detail, however much it excited him. He'd nearly discarded the envelope; almost missing the final index-card sized piece of paper. Pulling it from its confines, Harry gazed across the emerald green lettering, teeth worrying into his lip, slightly. 

'Harry,  
As I understand, your situation of living with your extended family prohibits you from knowing your origins. I have pleaded with them that they tell you, to no avail. I've contacted them, in hopes that they see a newfound appreciation of you. If they find some, then someone will come to collect you to allow you to retrieve your supplies. If they stubbornly refuse, as I presume to be the outcome, then someone will come to collect you to allow you to retrieve your supplies. I wish to say more, but I wish not to compromise your safety.  
Good riddance.'

He noted duly the letter was unsigned, but the script was loose and flowy, seemingly written by the same person who’d addressed the letter. But newfound appreciation? Harry could find humour in that, however dry it was. Something else troubled him; ‘ I've contacted them…’ that meant--

“Boy-!!” His booming voice shook the support beams above him, shaking a coating of dust loose from the ceiling. His vision was clouded by a thin layer of dust, periodically rendered blind until he collected his bearings enough to stumble from his abode. Brushing grime from his riot of bedhead, Harry pushed open the door of the kitchen, gaze becoming meek as he caught the look on his uncle’s face, positively Crimson with fury.

He seemed to take two hard, deep breaths, nostrils flaring violently before he spoke, in a forcefully modulated tone. “What on Earth is this?”

Harry’s eyes trailed down to catch a hint of the emerald green writing he’d found on his own letter, and he felt himself sealing away, closing his emotions off. His ability to remain impassive would aide him now. 

“I dunno.”

His elder swelled again, now looking positively demonic as he gave Harry an icy glare. 

“You mean to tell me-” Suddenly thrusting the letter in his face, Harry took a tentative step back, an alarmingly rational fear of being struck leaping into his throat. The violent gesticulation was not as to harm him, however, but to show him what he was on about. “-That you don’t know what this is?”

Harry took a breath, finally focusing his viridescent gaze upon the words;

'Mr/Mrs. Dursley  
the Kitchen  
4 Privet Drive  
Little Whinging  
Surrey'

He suddenly had a wild urge to laugh, staunched only by the horrendous look on his uncle’s face. He took another breath, eyes trailing to meet his. Harry shrugged.

“Probably a prank.” He remained annoyingly tepid.

There was a long bout of silence, and Harry had half a mind that Vernon was to throw him through the adjacent wall. 

“Yes, a prank is all…” He finally chuckled with a somewhat nervous air, and Harry watched a muscle visibly twitch in his jaw. “All an elaborate prank, no big deal…”

He’d opened the letter, eyes scanning across the words in a somewhat crazed manner, only heightening in lunacy as he read further. Harry took his tightening grip upon the parchment as a warning sign that he were to explode. Vernon’s purely demonic gaze trailed up to meet his, eyeballs practically bulging from their sockets.

He opened his mouth, and Harry winced, steeling himself for an onslaught of anger. What he was not expecting, however, was for the doorbell to ring.


	2. Viridis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His coal black eyes gave a sort of malevolent sparkle at the request.  
> "Me?" He questioned blankly.
> 
> "Why me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahah I'm still super new to this //// although it seems like you all are enjoying this so far, I'm really happy about that :3 I'm debating whether I should add some of my other OC based stories here... I dunno yet, I've got to think about it. Anyways, thank you all for the kudos and such! This chapter is a smidge shorter, I'm still deciding if I want to continue with this or not :,D and school is back in session so //shrug hope you enjoy!

A surge of inexplicable anger coursed through him, tautening jawlines and deepening the ever-prominent churning of the darkness within his iris’, giving him a rather demonic outside appearance. Within him, however, was surprisingly calm, however chilly it was; he needed a faux outward look of anger to get his point across. 

Severus Snape was angry. This, of course, was habitual, from the little irksome things to the prominently ignorant others putting his emotions on the line; but this was different. 

“Tell me again why I’m helping the boy?” He questioned delicately, watching the elders forehead crease at his clipped tone. He was watching him through his lashes, the surprisingly icy blue glare keeping him from leaving the room and the conversation as it stood. His own stare, however, was level from beneath the tent of his pale fingers, boring into the annoyingly pleasant gaze of Albus Dumbledore. 

“I’ve just explained it, Severus; the boy needs help understanding who he is-” He began, voice softening as if speaking to a child. He felt his anger climbing his throat, constricting his windpipe; tensing his tone as he cut across the tentative speech.

“Yes, I understand that much, but- why me?”

He saw a flash of apprehension cross his eyes, gone before he could correctly interpret it. Albus gave him a small, knowing smile. “You know Hagrid is unable to, and you seem only fit to do so in his place.”

When Snape said nothing, he continued. “Maybe it’s time to put childish feuds asid-”

“Childish feuds?” He echoed, voice laced with the chilly calm he honed within. Albus seemed impassive to such anger, the twinkling of his eyes not lessening in the slightest. “You call what Potter did to me a childish feud?”

“Both parties were not innocent, Severus.” Albus reminded gravely, voice tightening slightly. Snape fell silent once more, however he refused to back down- still staring into his eyes, in silence. 

He could tell Albus knew he was on the verge of refusing, something in his eye glimmering; and he suddenly had the impression that he was being x-rayed by the gaze- Severus hesitated before breaking the contact their eyes made, however much his frown tightened. 

“Severus,” He spoke, voice dropping to hardly a whisper. “Think of Lily,”

He stopped himself before he could continue, catching the grimace on Severus’ expression and dying into a silence; simply staring once more. 

“Old man,” Severus suddenly began, hardly catching the amused look upon Albus’ face as the name registered with him; for he buried his face into his palms. “You owe me.”

-

What he expected was not what he’d encountered. Not in the slightest.

He’d expected him to be healthy, with expertly tousled hair and a mischievously glittering viridescent gaze; a small scar on his forehead but otherwise unscathed- lanky but well fed. He’d encountered something far, far worse. His hair was tousled, but not by the unconscious doing of well manicured fingers- instead, messy as if it hadn’t touched a comb in weeks. His gaze was viridescent, but clouded over, somehow- as if missing some sense of life itself; the scar upon his pale cheeks was not small and unsuspecting as he imagined, but instead stretching from his hairline to the section of skin where his jaw met his neck- this, however, hardly altered his overall endearing appearance. He was lanky, but nearly dangerously so; hardly well fed, if even at all. 

Severus, for the first time in his life, was rendered lost for words. 

“S-sir?” he spoke with an innocent tone, even; something dark sparkling within his nonplussed gaze. He fought to retain his menacing persona, towering feet above him.

“You’re the Potter boy, then?” He finally spoke, in clipped tones. Watching the boy’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline, Severus had to suppress a grin. His nod was impeccable, he noted, inhabiting an odd quirk of glancing back into the house, as if awaiting someone. “Is this a bad time?”

The look he gave him was fear stricken, to such an extent that Severus had the slightest of inclinations of his living condition. He opened his mouth, words refusing to form. He closed his mouth just as quickly. 

The door suddenly whipped open, wide enough to expose a whale of a man, pudgy and short, no definite contrast between where his head ended and neck began; a great mustache covering his top lip- at some point in history it may have been dirty blonde- now, streaked with grey and white. Snape felt his eyebrows lift slightly at his appearance, clad in a cottony robe and plush slippers. The opposite man seemed just as incredulous to his own style; greasy, dark locks framed his thin, sallow cheeks; a dark cloak draping to his feet matching the colour to a T. 

“And you are?” The male finally broke the intensifying silence, piggy eyes trained on the boy, who seemed to be trying to slink back into the house unawares. 

“Severus.” He spoke in a way that hinted he need not elaborate upon himself, and the opposite man seemed to take the hint, however much his eyes darkened at the unhabitual greeting. “I presume you’ve received the letter explaining my presence?”

He was speaking more towards the boy, but it was the man who answered. 

“I have indeed, but I-” He broke off into silence as he realised he was not being listened to- Snape’s eyes were trained not on him, but on the boy, who was mouthing wordlessly to the concrete beneath his bare feet, posture oddly tensed. All at once, reality came crashing into him; and he suppressed a choked breath. 

“You… you neglect him?” His voice was tinged with something borderline innocence, masked only by his intimidating demeanour. Some sort of twisted nostalgia seeped into his brain, memories of his own pitiful childhood tightening the corners of his lips.

“That's not of your concern.” Was the elder males reply, short and tart. Once more, Severus’ gaze was not upon him, but on the boy. He’d finally brought his head up, staring hard at him, something pleading in his look. 

Severus opened his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted as another body took its place within the conversation- bounding down the stairs as fast as his short legs could carry him; creaking loudly as if barely able to hold the strain of weight upon them; he just as young looking as the Potter boy, but nearly as pudgy as the male; a very piggish look about his features. His squinted eyes sparkled malevolently as he caught sight of the visitor. 

“Father, my playstation is broken.” 

The male turned to him, cross expression melting into one of a whipped father; frown lifting to a gentle grin. A small chuckle from surprisingly chapped lips broke the silence, dying away as Snape’s dark gaze carried to bore into the side of his head. “In a moment, Dudley…” 

“...yes?” There was an obvious change in his tone; from dripping with honey to pure hard malice, a tone that was not unlike his own, in most situations. He grappled on the verge of speech, some greater force pushing his words back against the roof of his mouth; no matter how he struggled. This, he realised gravely, was not the work of his underlying self anxiety, but from another being all-together. 

His coal black eyes tailed to meet innocently viridescent. His gaze was just as nonplussed as his, glancing worriedly at his uncle, who’d lapsed into some sort of odd silence- his mouth opened and closed, as if speaking, but not a sound was made- the sickening realisation seemed to settle upon him incorrectly, eyes widening comically. 

He seemed to point at him as if with an accusation, however much his hand trembled. Severus merely gave him a sort of grin, idly performing the counter-curse to the weak charm, unawares to the company. 

“It seems although someone is a bit overzealous to begin their training, I see…” He finally spoke, pushing some semblance of well needed suavity into his tone. He caught his gaze, tipping the corners of his lips down in a slight frown. “If you do not realise by this point of the reason for my visit, you are either incredibly daft or incredibly stubborn.”

Ignoring the slightly appalled look on the opposite males face, Severus pulled a neatly folded square of parchment from his breast pocket, taking his time to unfold it. “...Vernon Dursley, I presume… drill factory owner, one legitimate child… yes, yes, how… quaint.”

He looked up again, giving him the fakest of tight lipped smiles. “And one little secret.”

Suddenly crumpling the paper into a ball, Severus felt a devious sort of grin creeping up his pale features, bringing the trash to his lips, slowly. The slight abrasive touch of the parchment massaged the soft expanse of his lips, methodically, his breath fluttered from between his lips; as if it were pure hydrogen. The paper burst into flames, licking his chin gently- a moment later reduced to merely dust, fluttering charred in the morning dew. 

Ignoring the awed looks on their faces, Snape pressed on. “You’ve not listened to the given instructions when you first took the boy into your inhabitance, thus resulting in the… mess we see today.”

“You’ve received explicit orders that you’ve gone against, which not only trouble Potter’s life, but yours as well…” Snape paused, eyes giving a slight flash. “Which gives me the slight inclination to remove him from this… home.”

At this point, Vernon seemed to recover from his lack of words, pushing sweat from his brow and practically seething. “Then- take him, then-... I don’t give a damn…”

With a rough shove, Dursley pushed the Boy outside the temperature controlled abode of their home, and he stumbled slightly, nearly losing his footing against the freshly manicured concrete. As the door was swung shut with a sense of finality, Severus could have sworn he caught the ever so horse-like face of her sister.

He paused, mind moving much too sluggishly to comprehend what’d just transpired before him. He’d only come to speak with the boy, to possibly refresh his mind on what his relatives were supposed to have informed him on. He’d even mentally prepared himself to deal with a pompous, James-like boy. He’d not readied himself for, however, a boy who’d looked as if he’d lost his parents the day previous, an uncanny resemblance to himself, however much it sickened him to say it. Severus let his gaze carry slowly to him despite himself.

He had his mother’s eyes.


	3. Contritone Pervalida

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shatter it, right..?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (tbh i was gonna put "snep snep sneverus snep dumnElDoraE" as the chapter summary but i decided it wasn't tactful) I struggled a bit writing this chapter, because I was trying my best not to victimise Snape, especially everything he's guilty of doing. It's hard, though, since no one on the other side of the argument over whether Snape was good or not is either dead or in exile. I've always thought, personally, that Snape was not to be pitied, especially not deserving to get a kid named in his 'honour'; sure, he's brave for standing up to James, but he also (in)directly caused deaths of countless, including Lily; and refused to understand the meaning of the word 'no'. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ that's just my opinion, you don't have to agree with it, but it's going to alter the direction I decide to take the story.

“M-Mr--... who are you?” Harry had hardly recovered from his stumble before his curiosity took over, eyes regaining a sort of childish glimmer as he inspected the darkly clothed male before him. Tall, almost annoyingly so, whatever skin was visible from beneath his dark cloak deathly pale, as if it barely saw the sun. Locks of dark, oily hair framed his thin face like a curtain, nearly shading his eyes from reality. He truly looked right out of a children’s book. “You look like a vampire, a bit.”

The man sneered. “Hardly.”

His crisp tone halted the forming question on his lips, and Harry looked away, an apology already forming. He was therefore startled as he felt a hand touch the crown of his head, as to direct him away from the doorstep, and the prying eyes of the Dursleys. His strides were much shorter than the elders, and he nearly jogged to keep up; staying such a distance away as so the midnight cloak billowing in his wake wouldn’t trip him up. 

“Sna- Severus Snape.” The man finally introduced himself, sparing the boy a disdainful glance. “That’s- Professor Snape, to you… however.”

“P-Professor, how on earth d’you know me?” Harry hardly waited for an answer before asking his next question, panting slightly in earnest attempt to keep up. “I-I’m… just… Harry.”

The professor fell silent, seemingly brooding- judging by the constant look of disgust upon his swallow features. 

“They truly told you nothing…” He finally breathed, giving him another side glance. “Here- Potter, quit acting like a dog--!”

He suddenly thrust a pale hand out to him, halting his long strides enough for Harry to catch up, hesitating slightly before slipping his hand into the cold, callous one. Snape pulled him forward, suddenly, impervious to the crowds of Londoners idling the streets in the warm, morning sun as he quite literally dragged him along. 

Harry could idly hear Severus muttering under his breath as he was tugged along, nearly tripping over frayed shoelaces and lifts in the concrete. The older male seemed impervious to this, leading him between two desolate office buildings, standing breathless in a dark, dank alley. It stank of stale foodstuffs and spoiled waste, bits and pieces of trash strewn against the decaying brick of the structures, some of which had begun to mould into the wall; with age. Harry stepped cautiously over a broken beer bottle, eyes straining to adjust to the limited light. 

Harry hadn't entirely trusted the man to begin with, but this was a new level of which he was unprepared. Half formed speculations began formulating within his adolescent mind, becoming steadily less and less likely as time progressed. He'd hardly begun formulating his escape plan before the professor spoke in curt tones. 

“Before you decide to attempt to hex me, Potter, I need only explain your situation.” The peevish look on the elder males face only heightened as Harry shot him his innocent gaze in return, oddly intriguing. “First off, I didn't bring you to an alley to rob you, you must be forgetting that you've got absolutely nothing.”

Ignoring his look of surprise, Severus pressed on. “I don't know how this… Situation.. Will end up, but for now, you’d be safest with me.” 

“S-safest with you…? Why? Am I in danger?” Harry questioned innocently, unaware of the slightly murderous look Snape inhabited upon his features. 

“Take my hand, Potter.”

-

A sensation of something tugging fiercely at his navel pushed all thoughts previously floating through his brain; nearly blinded by the flash of iridescent light that'd supposedly removed them from the alley and relocated them to a desolate sort of countryside. 

He first caught sight of a dank river, musky and dark with waste of all variances; winding between banks of overgrown grass and weeds. All that remained of the apparently previously inhabiting mill was a sizeable chimney, alone in the once cheerful meadow, now shadow stricken, ominous. No sign of life was evident, no soft chirping of birds in the desolate trees, nothing. 

Snape was beside him, pulling him up from the muddy bank with a surprising amount of force, hardly sparing him a glance. 

“Wipe your trousers, Potter. You wouldn't want to attract bugs.” This, to any other person, would see it as a deprication of sorts, but Harry only saw it as an appreciation for his well being, adolescent mind already far too trustworthy. 

This elated thought was put to rest as Severus urged the boy in front of himself, to aide him over the low standing railing that separated the river bank from the badly cobbled street. 

“Apparated far too west, again…” Harry heard Snape mutter, pulling him across the road and in between a pair of dilapidated brick houses, stepping over badly refracted slivers of glass from the broken street lamps above; the ones of which that worked glowing feebly in the morning light. He continued leading him through the nearly identical roads, to a street named ‘Spinners End,’ as Harry duly noted. The houses of which were dark and overall uninviting, a stab of apprehension overcame him as the professor led him impatiently to the last house on the street; a bit beyond where the cobbled road ended, tall grass creeping steadily up the side of the building. 

They paused in front of the door, Harry’s breath slightly laboured, heaving in the dank smell of the rubbish river that hung in the breeze. Snape seemed to be rummaging for something throughout his pockets, taking an odd amount of time; it seemed as if they were much bigger than they appeared to be. He disregarded Harry’s speculatory gaze, however, however much they bore into the side of his skull. 

With little triumph, he produced a small, slightly rusting key from the confines of his pockets, glowing a fine silver; in the past, it may have been clearer, but still shone nevertheless. It seemed to match the door handle, the colour of which first looked at contrast surprisingly exact; as Harry noted as the professor unlocked the door quietly. 

“Touch nothing.” He finally broke the silence, swinging the door only wide enough for a sliver of light to touch upon the darkness of the room. The inside was reminiscent of a tomb; a dim light in the corner the only differentiating factor among the dark, illuminating walls of books. A single, large reclining chair sat in the centre of the room; worn and lumpy. It gave a small semblance of warmth in the otherwise chilly atmosphere of his surroundings. 

“...are you sure you aren't a vampire, professor?” 

The cold look he received was an answer in and of itself, and Harry chose the wiser of the decisions and put the matter to rest. Sidling cautiously into the darkened space, Severus swept past him suddenly, muttering unconsciously under his breath as he illuminated the room with a small gas lamp. The tiny flame danced shadows across the ceiling, only adding to the haunted persona of the room. 

“I've got to contact Dumbledore,” The professor suddenly breathed, black eyes glinting. He ignored Harry’s questioning glance, rummaging suddenly for more unknown entities.

He disappeared from the room suddenly, into the one adjacent, returning just as quickly as he'd left, a quill and parchment in hand. His handwriting, Harry noticed, was not of the same of the letter written; his was more chicken scratch, while the other loose and flowy. 

“...Figure out how to move the boy safely…” Severus muttered under his breath, hardly noticing the effect his words had had on him. 

“Move me…?”

He looked up at that, catching the innocently viridescent gaze; but it was disrupted, somehow, with something borderline grief. 

“...s-shatter it… Right?” Harry whispered, humiliated tears prickling in his eyes. He watched his face contort slightly, with confusion. Himself included, had no clue what the subject 'it' was; he's just known he'd heard it before, somewhere. He was surprised to watch the elders expression soften, somewhat, however much his intimidating stature remained. 

“Potter, this is not to spite you in any way, only to keep you… Safe.” Severus explained monotonously, a slight drawl to his words. “So just… Take a seat and hush.”

Harry took the curt response as gospel, clambering suddenly onto the cinchy couch, leaning slightly against the arm; to enable himself to watch the professor's actions. He watched as he took the hurriedly scrawled letter, folding it neatly into a small square; edges the slightest bit frayed by the lacklustre quality of the paper. He spared him a coal black glance before disappearing from the front door, and Harry was, as usual, left in the dark. 

He took this moment to reconcile what'd occurred in the last half-hour, already warped memories pouring into his gentle train of thought. A section of his skin was cool against the brass finishing of the chair, reflecting his own face- however unproportional- against metal. He hardly took notice as his company returned, not looking up as the cold gaze struck under his skin. 

“...Tell me a story, professor.” He finally spoke, hushed and adolescent. Snape said nothing, but Harry saw how his dark eyes darkened all the more, hardening to black, like dried paint upon a canvas, and he had half a mind to backtrack, to change his mind in the midst of the decision. There was suddenly, however, a streak of emotion coursing through the pale face of the elder male, nearly missed in the limited light. 

He was watching him with an odd look as he closed the door behind himself, moving behind him to rest his arms against the headpiece of the seat. When he spoke, it was with a gentle voice, of stark contrast to his usual belittling tone. 

“...There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight.” He paused slightly, taking a long, sinuous breath. “In time, the brothers reached a river too deep to wade through and too dangerous to swim across; However, these brothers were learned in the magical arts, and so they simply waved their wands and made a bridge appear across the treacherous water. They were halfway across it when they found their path blocked by a hooded figure.”

“-And Death spoke to them. He was angry that he had been cheated out of three new victims, for travelers usually drowned in the river.” He spared a glance at Harry, who was staring hard at the corner of the small coffee table as if it held every secret of the universe; however much he blinked with adolescent tiredness. “But Death was cunning. He pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon their magic and said that each had earned a prize for having been clever enough to evade him.”

“...So the oldest brother, who was a combative man, asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence: a wand that must always win duels for its owner, a wand worthy of a wizard who had conquered Death--” The professor paused once more, somewhat breaking the allusion his voice made with a soft cough. Harry paid no attention to this, leant back in the armchair and attempting to keep his eyes from closing; to no avail. “--So Death crossed to an elder tree on the banks of the river, fashioned a wand from a branch that hung there, and gave it to the oldest br…”

The inescapable hand of slumber slowly grasped him, pulling him into another world; another timeline. 

-

Severus knew he was asleep, but he continued the story nevertheless, too caught up in reconciliation to stop, now. He remembered telling her the same tale, on a summers evening; following a lazy day, lying around in dewy long grass, the crisp scent of the trickling river before them, abundant with wildlife. They sat beneath a great willow tree, whimsical leaves draping idly across sunlight and staining shadows upon the expanse below. 

He remembered those words clearly; even as he attempted to drown them out with an onslaught of others, they stood at the forefront of his mind. 

She'd told him the exact same thing. 

“...Shatter it, right?” 

He'd been a bit taken back when the boy had replicated his mother's words, especially when he was presumably just as nonplussed of what the 'it' was supposed to amount to. She'd said it to him outside the Gryffindor common room, the last time they'd been properly aquatinted.

But shatter what?

They'd both spoken those words after a strong bout of emotio- and with that, it all came piecing together. 

...Shatter my heart. 


End file.
